The Key Of The Sea
by Somepatriot
Summary: -USUK Pirate!AU (1700's) Rated M for violence, minor character death- Arthur lived a small life working an inn. That is, before a bear of a man burst through his door, practically kidnapped him, and forced him into a journey he never wanted to have. And what's all this about a magic key and golden eyes?
1. Prologue

"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken." -Fyodor Dostoevsky

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****Arthur Kirkland had always lived a small life, and so it was with his past regarded that he expected it to continue in the same manner. The inn he owned sat on a small dirt road in a relatively unknown fishing port. The people he serviced were few and far between. He kept his establishment open with the cunning placement of a bar and an open door to sailors and men of spirits alike.

So it was to his complete surprise that an enormous man slammed open the door of the inn one night and stomped into the nearly empty room, shocking both himself and the fisherman warming by the large stone fireplace at the other end of the room. In the night's snow, his silhouette looked bear-like.

His steps carried a saunter that spoke of the rough winter seas and his skin was weathered despite his young age. He had the look of a man who was not a stranger to hard times and little food. He was a sailor, there was no questioning that, not by the muscles that were built from heaving ropes and oars.

He was the strangest patron to walk through Arthur's ever-open door.

He wore glasses, things that Arthur had only ever heard of, and he carried no weapon, which Arthur thought was odd for a man who had so obviously seen the roughest of seas.

"Might I help you?" Arthur asked, his curiosity shown through his subtly raised brow.

"Aye," the man said, brushing some half-melted snow from his hair. "Rum and a room, if you'd be so kind."

"The rum will be a ha'penny."

The odd sailor nodded, and seemingly out of nowhere, procured a copper coin and tossed it at the inn keeper. Arthur wouldn't have been able to catch it had this not been the usual behavior of his clientele.

The inn-keeper tossed a bottle back at the large man, who grabbed it from the air without blinking. He uncorked his alcohol, and to Arthur's surprise, did not guzzle it down, but instead took a sip and turned his attention to the fisherman who was still staring at the overwhelming sight of a man as large as he.

"How are the waters, would you say?"

Arthur had no idea how the odd sailor knew that the shivering man by the fire was a fisherman, and therefore knew the sea. It wasn't as if he looked apart from anyone else in the village, although, with it being a fishing village, perhaps it was only safe to assume.

"Cold, I assure you," the man replied, through chattering teeth, his brow raising just as Arthur's had. "Not a favorable wind in sight. Y'should be docked for a while."

The man shrugged his large shoulders, but his eyes danced with something that didn't speak of blatant disregard.

The fisherman gave a light chuckle, his eyes coming to life in camaraderie. "Have you come with a crew?"

Arthur left the men (the ocean was of no concern to him) and returned to running the few chores left for the day. It was a long while before the fisherman left the sailor, and by the time he did, the snow was high enough to cover a man's boot. They had both indulged in enough alcohol to drop ten soldiers, and the fisherman wobbled when he walked out the door. The strange, large, ever-intriguing sailor did not share this detriment.

Be that as it may, he still reeked of rum when he leaned against the bar.

"What's that frown for, girly?" The sailor asked, empty bottle swinging in his hand, his face filled with blissful inhibition. Arthur dealt with drunkards on a usual basis, but insults were not something he would stand to tolerate, no matter the intoxication of the perpetrator.

"Girly?" Arthur squawked, all traces of previous formality leaving his posture. His hand tightened around the edge of the bar, and he glared hard at the large man across from him. The snow whispered from the door, a warning, a reminder. Neither bothered to heed it.

"Aye, you've got the look about you. From the swing of your hips to the twist in your nose."

Arthur felt the blood rise up to his face, boiling under his skin. His fists clenched, and the drunken sailor immediately ducked. He seemed to know this behavior.

"Girly!" Arthur repeated, the vein of his neck throbbing. "Who the devil do you think you are? You come to my bloody inn, and under no provocation, you insult me?"

The pirate laughed heartily, which did not go unheeded, and cast a wink towards the fuming man.

"Never meant to offend! The name's Jones." He crowed, his head falling forward onto the lip of his bottle. He peered into it, only to be disappointed at it's emptiness, and hopped off his stool, swaying.

"Now," he sighed, as if he'd just opened his eyes to dawn. "About that bed, eh?"

Arthur's grip slipped. His fist came up in a right hook and he took a battle stance. He was not the most muscled man in his village, but he was certainly strong. It would surely be a knockout.

Yet, before his arm had even reached the proper angle, his fist was stopped short. This jarred him, the bones of his right limb creaking.

"Oh-ho-ho!" Jones cried, his hand tightening around the inn keeper's fist. "My mistake, it seems that girly's quite daring!"

Arthur wrenched his fist back, pretending like his bones had not been crushed. "Crawl back to your rotting ship and freeze!" He shouted, enraged.

"By my word, you'll never find a bed in this town!"

"I do doubt that," said Jones, his mouth pulling down into the traces of pity. "Like I said, I never meant no offense."

Jones leaned down. His breath carried the foul stench of rum, yet nonetheless, his teeth remained white. Arthur noted again that he seemed to have no weapon.

As the man bent at his waist, a small silver key slipped out from under his shirt and sea-coat. It hung on a small piece of twine. Arthur's eyes went straight to it. For a moment, he forgot about his anger, he forgot about his throbbing hand. Instead he longed for the sea. He longed for the feel of waves on his cheek and salt in his breath. He wanted to chase the sun.

Jones' entire body went solid, and his breath caught.

They stayed that way, frozen, Arthur's eyes glued to the key, Jones' eyes glued to Arthur, until the sailor came to his senses and snatched the thing up. He tucked it behind his shirt, swallowing thickly.

The moment the gleam of the silver was out of sight, Arthur snapped back into his anger.

Jones had wide eyes behind his spectacles, suddenly sober.

"Never," said he, a quietness to his words, "did I think it could be someone like you."

* * *

**Wow, hello everyone. **

**So I've had this story floating around my head (and this poor dismantled notebook) for ages. I'm very nervous to write it, because I really want to get it right! So if you have any critique, please let it loose, I've just got to know what I can fix!**

**However, be warned that updates will be wonky and displaced. And dialogue might be iffy...**

**This is merely the prologue, things will become clearer as we go along, but if you have any questions I will be happy to answer them.**

**Thank you so much for reading!**

**-Mallory**

**(P.S.**

**Sorry to those of you who read the stories I've neglected, I've recently become engulfed by new fandoms and school. I will update them again, but this is story is my priority.)**

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**Thanks to thenamesiggykirkland for all the help with this story, it wouldn't be written without you.**

* * *

_Based of Chapter 28 of "Can't Help Falling In Love" by Somepatriot (me)._


	2. Chapter One

_"The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them."_ -Ernest Hemingway

* * *

As ridiculous as it seemed, Arthur eventually got used to having such an obnoxious man in his inn, and for one reason only: the man seemed to have a never-ending amount of silver coins in his pocket, which he often generously tossed at Arthur. Arthur caught every one, pocketing them before he could contemplate how a lone sailor managed to run into so much money in the first place.

This managed to keep his head turned and his mouth shut on most occasions. He turned a blind eye on Jones when he spread a map on the table by the bar and began marking things all over the Atlantic. He poured rum even after Jones started making vile comments. Moreover, he let the fool into his kitchen because his cooking was, apparently, 'worse than anything I've ever had to eat, and I've eaten sawdust.'

However, no amount of silver could make him forget the inconspicuous key hanging underneath the sailor's tunic. Hell, Jones could pay him his weight in gold, and Arthur wouldn't ever be able to shake the thoughts. The key didn't simply perk his interest; it controlled his mind.

It was only a matter of time before Jones caught on.

"If you would be _so kind, _Mr. Jones, I'd appreciate it if you kept your feet _off_ of my table."

Jones lifted an eyebrow lazily, swirling his rum in his hand. His boots stayed glued to the wood. The windows were open, the chilly air pouring into the room, slowly, languidly, whispering that spring was all too near.

Jones nodded to the map beside his feet, sipping at his rum. "D'ya suppose the points are on mark?"

Arthur stopped, the rag he'd been wiping dust with hanging limply in his hand. "On your map? How the devil should I know? I've never sailed in my life."

Jones pursed his lips and sat up, his unoccupied hand going to his neck to fondle at the thin strip of twine there. Arthur's eyes followed it, his argument forgotten, waiting, hoping, for that key to make an appearance.

"The points on the map. You see them, aye?"

Arthur took a moment to answer, and when he did, it was detached. "Aye."

Jones licked his lips, and tugged the key out from under his tunic. Arthur felt the blood rush in his ears, and the world focused on one small object. It was extremely intricate, but so very small. Miniscule mermaids hung on either side of it, together holding aloft a skull and an hourglass.

"The points are on the mark, are they not?" Jones prompted, leaning forwards a bit. Arthur had the sudden urge to tear the key off his neck and run. His hand reached out, fingers curling towards the key, and Jones panicked.

He tucked the key underneath his shirt, patting it down, and fell back into his chair. As if nothing had happened at all.

Arthur snapped out of his trance immediately, feeling fuzzy. Like the world was too big. Everything was too big. Jones was too big.

"What was that?"

"What?"

Jones had his bottle at his lips, his eyebrow cocked dangerously. A warning. _Do not ask. I will not answer._

Arthur swallowed thickly. Very well. If it was a game Jones wanted, a game Arthur would play.

…

Tug-of-War was probably the worst game to be involved in against a man as large as Jones, but that was the game Arthur chose. And the rope?

A small string of twine.

Arthur tried everything. He bribed Jones with money, but the man seemed to have more than enough. He bribed him with lies. He pretended to know things he did not for a while, and that had almost worked. Until Jones asked him where Arthur wanted to go and the innkeeper replied North. Which was, apparently, the most improbable place to sail. Something about ice.

Arthur stooped so low as to sneak into Jones' room in the night and try to pry up his sheets like a pervert and a whore. This ended only in extreme embarrassment and drunken cat calls.

Arthur would probably have given up if it hadn't been for the pirate.

It was a frigid morning, the weather had reminded itself that it was still not spring, and rushed back to make amends. Frost clung to the windows, and the fire crackled loudly from it's place across from the bar.

Jones was in his usual place, at the table nearest to where Arthur worked, pouring over the map that had too many marks.

Arthur was about to demand answers, throw in the towel and try things the blatant way, when the door was slammed open.

A young man stormed into the room. There was ice on his breeches, as if he had splashed through a puddle. His hair shone chestnut. He was of the same stature as Arthur, wiry and thin, but when he walked into the room, he filled it up. His scowl was so strong you could smell it.

Worse yet, he had a sword.

Jones was suddenly on his feet, the map lying forgotten on the table. For once, Arthur was glad the man was so big. Not that brawn would do much against metal. Arthur ducked under the bar, and watched the men from between the glass bottles.

"Where is it."

It wasn't a question, it was a demand. It was said in a thick, southern accent that carried a sense of horror. If voices could kill, everyone within the town would have dropped down dead.

"That old piece of silver?" Jones asked, lightly. "Sold to a pawner in the last port, got m'self a pretty penny."

The man marched forward, and shoved the point of his sword at Jones' chest. Jones backed up, his hands raised. His back hit the bar. Arthur trembled.

"Oi," Jones grumbled. His tone suddenly switched, his sailor's tongue grew thicker. "Both you and I are men o' the sea! A word or two won't be misplaced."

The red head growled. "I've no time for words! And you won't either!"

Arthur panicked. He didn't think about his next actions. One minute, he was shivering behind the bar. The next minute, he was slamming a thick glass bottle over the stranger's head, which cracked, the wine pouring out of it.

Jones took the moment to bat the stranger's sword out of his hand and crouch down on one knee. He plucked an iron dagger from his boot, and in one quick motion, stood up and plunged it into the other man's shoulder.

Jones turned, grabbed Arthur's arm, and pulled him around the bar and out the door.

Behind them, the stranger wailed, and fell to the ground.

"Do you have a horse?" Jones shouted, pulling Arthur behind the inn and running across the frozen grass, to the stables. Arthur couldn't do anything but run along, trying to keep his feet from tripping over themselves. He looked behind his shoulder.

"You just stabbed him!"

"Aye, and he would've stabbed me first if he'd had the chance. _Do you have a horse?_"

Arthur's eyes widened and he tried to put his feet down, literally. "You just stabbed someone! He-he was-was he a pirate? Did you just stab a bloody pirate in my bloody fucking inn?"

Jones huffed and pulled Arthur forward. They could smell the horses by this time, and Arthur had a feeling using Arthur's own horse would only be courtesy, and not priority.

"Are _you _a pirate?"

"Right on the mark!" Jones replied, shoving Arthur into the stables, and grabbing the first horse he laid eyes on. It was a sturdy black horse, it's bridle still dangling from its nose. The stable boy was horrid with finishing his chores.

Jones unhitched the gate and all but threw Arthur onto the animal. The horse whinnied in discomfort, but Jones swung on top of it regardless, and kicked it out the doors.

"He's not saddled!" Arthur complained. It was a rather dull thing to complain about. He was mashed between a pirate and the neck of a galloping horse, riding past the inn (and only the home he'd ever known) where a man had just been stabbed to death, after all. It probably didn't make much difference whether or not the horse had a bloody saddle.

…

It mattered that the horse didn't have a saddle.

After about the first five minutes, Arthur's rear was stinging like he was a naughty schoolboy. After thirty, he was sure it would fall off.

But they rode for hours. Arthur started wishing for death after the first three, and Jones threatened to grant his wish if he kept talking.

When they finally stopped, it was night. Jones slipped off the horse and groaned. The animal was huffing and snorting, its breath puffing clouds into the chilled air. It had followed the coast for more than half of the way. Now they were standing in the sand, the horse's hooves sinking. Arthur quickly slipped off, and immediately regretted it.

He fell onto his knees and groaned out a sob, shivering as he went.

Jones didn't spare him a glance, and instead, busied himself with the horse's bridle, giving Arthur some room to collect his pride.

"Where are we?" Arthur choked, once he finally could.

"Absolutely nowhere."

"Why?"

"Do you want to die?"

Jones pulled off the horse's bridle and pushed the animal away, eastward, away from the sea. Then he turned to Arthur, his face dark in the light of the moon, waves crashing menacingly behind the both of them. For a moment, Arthur thought Jones would gut him there on the sand. His body would probably never be found. His inn would rot, the townspeople would forever talk about the cooty old bachelor who had disappeared (he always was a bit off).

Jones reached down and pulled Arthur up by his arm, and Arthur began to sob.

"If you're going to kill me, make it quick, I've no desire to bleed out on this beach, I haven't the ability to run anyway! Your bloody horse trip has numbed my legs. You've just killed someone in my home anyway, I'll be hung the second I go back - they'll blame it on me! Just do it quick!"

Jones didn't seem to think it was odd that a grown man would let himself sob so openly at the foot of his murderer, or beg for his hasty finish. Arthur wondered, somewhere deep within his chaotic mind, how many times Jones had stood where he was standing now.

Jones' hand flickered over the piece of twine at his neck, and Arthur's sobs stifled, leaving only whimpers. His pride must have gone with the horse.

"I won't kill you."

Arthur wasn't stupid, the words meant absolutely nothing. Jones could and would kill him anytime he wanted to, and there wasn't a thing Arthur could do about it. He hated feeling weak, but he hated dying more.

"Aye? Now, start walking, or someone who don't share my sentiments might come along and take care of you themselves."

Arthur almost wished he'd been killed, rather than walk with his wobbly legs. He picked up his feet anyway, and began treading South, Jones trailing beside him. Every so often Arthur would stumble, and Jones would catch his arm or tell him to 'carry on.' After a while, Arthur stopped waiting for the knife in his back.

When they reached the docks, the sun was starting to rise. Arthur watched the port come to life as he trudged over the sand, then stones, and then wood. They made it to the docks just as the sun broke over the horizon.

Jones pointed to a cluster of nets and crates, hidden away between the husks of two large ships. "We'll stop here."

Arthur took one look at the nets and flopped straight into them. If Jones wanted to kill him, so be it. But he was going to sleep first.

…

Arthur woke up because he couldn't feel his legs. He could only feel the sun burning into his skin on one arm, which was completely wrong, because his bedroom had no windows. Not to mention the noise—a clamor of constant voices, the hiss a waves, the squeaking of a seagull. It smelled like salt and wood. And fish. Why did it smell so strongly of fish?

Arthur cracked open an eyelid and blinked away the sudden light.

He immediately bolted upright, reality crashing in on him like cold water. Jones sat up with him. The sailor... pirate... whatever he was, didn't seem to be bothered that he smelled like rotten trout, or that one side of his body was slightly more tan than the other. He simply shook out his limbs and stood, his hand subtly patting at the twine around his neck.

Arthur sucked in a long, shuddering breath. The air was still cold, and he assumed he would probably never recover from the night of frozen travel.

"Where are we?" He croaked. His throat felt as dry as his legs felt heavy.

Jones ran his hands through his dirtied blonde hair and sighed. "A large port near Bristol."

Arthur squawked. Bristol had to be at least two days travel from his small fishing village. A horse could only run so fast. How did Jones manage to cut a journey in half? More than that?

"It's large enough that no one will remember us," Jones continued, "and small enough that no one will come looking for us."

Arthur nodded, as if he understood, and started to stand up. It was a long process of creaking bones and searing muscles. All throughout it, Jones kept rambling, but Arthur paid him no mind. Not when he was shivering as he was, not when his legs were heavier than humanly possible.

Jones coughed pointedly, and pushed at Arthur's shoulder. Arthur stumbled forwards, and Jones stepped in line beside him.

"We have to find a particular sort of ship," Jones explained. Arthur didn't know why the man bothered. The innkeeper had no reason to debate a seaman's experience, or to refute any orders given to him by this would-be murderer.

Arthur trudged alongside Jones. He managed to drag his lead-weight legs around abandoned fishing nets and random barrels. They worked their way into the crowd. Everyone looked just as rough as they did, as if they hadn't slept in weeks. Everyone smelled like fish. Everyone was snarling.

Jones stopped in the middle of a brutish-looking group of sailors, and stared at a large ship anchored just across the dock.

She floated low in the water, almost fully stocked. She was clearly a merchant ship, built without much beauty.

"That's the one," Jones said.

Arthur was aching from head to toe. He didn't bother asking why that ship, out of all the others, was anything special. He didn't bother glaring at the few men who bumped into him as they walked by. He was completely convinced that Jones was insane and that he was a hapless prisoner. What else could he be but pliant?

He followed Jones towards the utilitarian ship. She was still being loaded, only a few more boxes and crates vigilant outside of the loading board.

Jones walked confidently towards them, his head held high and his shoulders squared in an aggressive posture. He eyed a crate and waved Arthur over. Together, they managed to lift the wooden box. Arthur was relieved to find that it was only filled with light linens, and not something so painful as bricks or gold. They shuffled into the line boarding the ship, and walked on as if they had no other purpose in life.

They made it about halfway across the ship's deck before someone heeded their presence.

"Oi! The two of you!" A man shouted. He looked gruff and had too many scars on his face. Arthur thought he looked rather like a patchwork quilt. He froze up.. He'd travelled with a murderer for so long, survived so much, only to be gutted when they reached their destination. What a plot twist his life was turning out to be.

The quilt-man marched up to them. He approached Jones, pushing into his personal space, and snarled something nasty.

"Bring that box down to the hold, you lazy dog!"

Arthur's shoulders fell in relief, and he had to hold back a smirk as they obediently turned and walked down the steep steps that led to the hold under the deck.

It was a long journey on tired legs, but there were no sailors. It smelled like old, wet wood and the air was somewhat warmer than it was outside, so Arthur was pleased. Or as pleased as one could be when one was helping a supposed murderer stow away on a ship.

They dropped the crate with a loud bang, and Jones surveyed the room.

It had a low ceiling, but it was wide. The entire hold was built into a maze of supplies and merchandise. Jones smiled.

"I have to admire their disorganisation, it's really that bad."

Arthur snorted. Maybe it was because he was tired, or drunk or running on adrenaline, or maybe it was because a small part of him was enjoying the fear that was coursing through his veins. But soon he was laughing. Jones joined in as well, and they looked like two small children who'd gotten away with doing something they ought not have.

"Idiots! The lot of them!" Arthur sniggered.

Jones chuckled, waving off Arthur's words like they were physical. "This is probably the worst ship I've ever had the displeasure to sail on. Shall we get comfortable?"

Arthur's eyes widened. "We're staying _here?_"

Jones shrugged. "It has food and plenty of shadowed places to tuck away into. I'm surprised there's not more of us down here, the loose-ended sailors almost make me sick."

That was the start of their journey. Jones managed to find a place the both of them could cram into without being spotted. Arthur was simply happy to sit for a long period of time. No one disturbed the cargo. Quilt-man didn't come bustling down the stairs, shouting about lazy dogs who needed to lift more boxes.

Once they set sail, and the boat began rocking, Arthur's head slumped against the crate he was leaning on. The boat creaked under him. It was a chaotic melody that was slowly egging him to sleep.

"Don't stab me when I go under," Arthur mumbled to Jones.

Jones only lifted an eyebrow, moving his cramped legs so they were farther from Arthur. "I'll try to restrain myself."

With that, Arthur closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

...

When Arthur woke up, Jones was gone. At first, this left him sort of dazed. It was as if freedom had been given to him after years of slavery. He wasn't quite sure what to do with it. He might have stopped worrying about getting a knife in his back, but that didn't mean he trusted the man, especially with his senseless and seemingly random plans.

Arthur stood up, using one of the crates for balance. That was when he realized the boat wasn't rocking as hard as it should have been. His legs still creaked as he rushed towards the stairs, but they didn't ache as horribly as they had the day before. Although there was a new crick in his neck from sleeping twice on cold floorboards.

The sun was streaming in from the stairway above him, and he felt a rush or liberation. He was free! He would not die! He could get away!

He took the stairs two at a time and burst onto the deck, immediately drawing the attention of almost the entire crew of the ship.

It was almost comical, the way they all paused in the middle of doing their work to stare at him. Quilt-man growled in the back of his throat and brandished a sword. "STOW-AWAY!"

Arthur gulped. The liberation he had felt moments before retreated to make way for the now familiar rush of adrenaline and fear.

His eyes grazed the scene. The deck was just as disorganized as the cargo hold. He was sure that if he tried to run through the sailors, he's trip over a loose rope and break his neck before anyone could stab him.

He looked towards the shore. It was tauntingly close. Close enough to swim to. Arthur acted on his impulse and legged it to the side of the ship before anyone else moved. A few of the quicker ones started for him as his hands gripped the edge, but he was in the water before they'd finished their first stride.

Arthur sent a silent prayer of thanks to the holy father for teaching him how to swim.

The water was icy and the salt burned his eyes. He felt the cold seep farther into his clothes and the waves tried to push him back towards the boat, but he fought tooth and nail.

He made it to the shore in that aggressive manner, sopping wet and shivering. His muscles were protesting so loudly he was tempted to chop his limbs clean off.

He rolled over onto the sand, his chest pumping heavily. That's when he saw the jolly roger waving at him from the very boat he'd just dove off of.

That's also when he scrambled out of the sand and ran the fuck away.

...

It wasn't until he was running down the cobblestone street that Arthur realized he would have been better off to have stayed on the sand and waited his pirated death.

He first noticed something was wrong when a man tugged out a throng of woman tied by their hands and started offering prices. His other clues consisted of jeers and smells that were somehow uglier than anything Arthur had ever seen at a respected port. Arthur was, essentially, completely surrounded by pirates.

He kept his head down and weaved through the crowd as (unsuspiciously) as possible. He felt like everyone was staring at him. That every whisper was a plot of how they would kill him. What had he been thinking, following a pirate like a lost duckling? It had to have been the key, that damn key...

Arthur pulled at his hair. It wasn't the time to get distracted! He was theoretically walking beside death. He picked up the pace. It was useless. You can't outrun death.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and tugged him back. He fell into an alley between two slumping men stood above him, cackling like mad.

"Ya not from 'round 'ere, are ya?" One of the two men exclaimed, his accent so thick Arthur had trouble deciphering it. He looked like he'd stepped out from a bedtime story parents told children to warn them about sea-dogs. He had an eyepatch that was fading at the edges, and a red bandana tied around his greasy head.

The other one looked like he might have once been a respectable gentleman. He wore a tailored shirt and refined trousers, but they were so worn and dirtied that they were probably the only clothes he owned.

"How much're ya?" Eye-patch asked, leaning down to give Arthur a once-over. His buddy guffawed.

"I'm not a prostitute!" Arthur screamed, scrambling to stand up, only to have one-outfit-wonder push him back down.

"So yer fee then, eh?" The man crowed, a fat smile dripping its way onto his face.

"If you come near me, I swear on my mother's grave I will end you."

Eye-patch looked amused, but his friend frowned.

"You're a proud little brat aren't ya? Ya need to learn ta shut yer trap!"

The man reached towards his belt, maybe for a knife, or a gun, or maybe just his belt, and then a bullet went through his skull.

Jones turned towards the other man and pulled the trigger again. He fell over dramatically, his legs stiff so he landed like a board. Arthur only had time to gasp.

"You imbecile!" Jone roared, tugging Arthur up by the arm. Arthur hissed in pain, but the only thought running through his mind was '_I'm going to be shot and killed by someone who just saved my life.'_

"Why didn't you just stay with me? I thought it'd be perfectly clear by now that I'm not going to kill you!"

Arthur snapped. He tugged his arm away and cradled it against his chest. "Actually, it's not that bloody simple!" He screamed back.

"I don't know if you've noticed, _Jones, _but I was living a perfectly mediocre life until _you _came bumbling in! Until you fucking _stabbed someone in my house _and then _kidnapped me_! I think I have all reason to believe you might kill me! You're insane!"

Jones growled, and his hands twitched as if he ached to grab Arthur and shake him into submission, or pull out a weapon and intimidate him. But he didn't.

"It's the key, the key! I'm not insane, I'm doing this because of _the key_. Don't tell me you don't feel anything!"

Jones reached under his tunic and tore the key off of the twine, shoving it in Arthur's face. Arthur felt the blood rush into his skull. A roaring sound started in his ears, like a storm at sea. He felt feverish but rejuvenated at the same time. His eyesight focused to the once little strip of metal.

_"Look in the South and you'll find the golden eyes who see the path that shines too bright,_" Jones quoted.

Arthur backed up. "Where did that come from? And my eyes are green!"

It was hard to formulate an argument when the key was dangling in front of his face, taunting him with its closeness.

"A man, a profit, a god, whatever he was, told me about this key. Arthur, this key unlocks a door that can give you your greatest desires, anything you've ever wanted. It can even turn back time."

Arthur felt his arm reach up, but Jones snatched the key away before Arthur could make for it.

"Say I believe you," Arthur started, eyes following the glinting silver. "That still doesn't explain the fact that I have green eyes."

Jones smirked, and pointed down at the puddle they were both standing in. It was murky, and it swallowed any colors the reflection in it had. But when Arthur looked into it, he saw his own eyes shining back, obviously glowing a bright yellow color. They were fading now that he had forced himself away from the key, but he could still see that his eyes were as gold as the sun.

"I was born in England," he said quietly. What good was arguing, now? "That's hardly the south."

Jones shook his head. "That's what I thought at first. I searched India and Southern Africa for a year. But then I thought: maybe it's the south part of any country. And not the world. Looks like I was right."

Arthur stumbled backwards, away from the puddle. He dragged his eyesight up to Jones; serious face. "You found me by chance?"

"No, I found you by a miracle. Now come with me, we need to get out of here before one of their friends shows up."

Jones kicked at Eye-patch, and Arthur gave himself a moment to realize that he was now travelling with a confirmed murderer.

"Besides," Jones said, "I have a meeting."

...

Arthur had never speculated where pirates held their meetings, but he never would have imagined it to be in a loud bar tucked behind a pigsty. Alcohol and curse words seemed to pour from any hole, and the people inside the building were so drunk that they probably couldn't even remember their own names. Arthur picked his way over a body that he very much hoped wasn't a corpse.

"Who are we meeting?" Arthur shouted over the ruckus.

"An old acquaintance of mine!" Jones shouted back. "He's well known around here. His name is Francis!"

Jones approached a table where a blonde man sat alone, his hair greasy and unkempt. He hair hunched over so his forehead was pressed directly into the wood of the furniture, and he had a large bottle of rum clasped between his hands.

Jones punched him on the shoulder. Francis came up reeling, and shouting something slurred in French. Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"Francis! It's me, Alfred!"

Arthur had to stop for a moment, his eyes comically wide. Jones' name was _Alfred. _It was strange to know that it wasn't something fearsome like _sword biter _or _murder-killer man. _Arthur didn't know what he'd expected. But he hadn't expected something as bland as _Alfred._

"Alfred?" Francis repeated, peeking out of one bloodshot eye. "Zhe Alfred? Alfred F. Jones? Where 'ave you been!"

Francis stood up from the table, but he got caught halfway and toppled back onto the stool, smiling as he went.

Alfred steadied him. "Francis, I need to talk to you. Somewhere we won't be overheard."

Francis smiled dolefully. "Oui, oui, yes. Whatever you want, Alfie."

Arthur groaned. "He's out of his mind with drunkenness! He's no use for talking now."

Jones shook his head. "Here, help me prop him up..."

Just as they'd worked together to lift the crate onboard the apparent pirate ship, Arthur and Alfred moved Francis out the door of the bar and towards the pigsty, where they threw him into the muck.

He only frowned at his dirty shirt before his eyes glazed over and his weightless smile returned.

"Francis," Jones hissed. Francis made no move to acknowledge him or the fact that he'd been thrown in a muddy pig sty.

"Francis, I have the key!" Jones continued. "And I found him, this-this is Arthur! His eyes, they glow gold!"

Francis looked at Arthur briefly, and for a moment his eyes showed the hints of sobriety. "You mean...we could...get to zhe door?"

Alfred nodded excitedly, his dirty blonde hair bouncing with him. "Yes! Francis, this is it, it can really happen! We can get them back!"

Francis' eyes widened and his cheeks puffed out with his sigh. He fell backwards into the mud. "I need to sober up."

* * *

**Historical Notes:**

**Alfred mentions eating sawdust. When food was super low and everyone was starving, pirates would sometimes eat anything they got their hands on. Including boot leather, roaches, sawdust, and other foul munchies.**

**A/N:**

**I'm really excited to write this story! Most chapters are gonna be around this length, I hope. Updates will, as always, be wonky, but I'll do my best to get them out ASAP!**

**It would mean the world to me if you left me some critique, it's the only way I can improve!**

**-Mallory**

* * *

_Thanks to thenamesiggykirkland, who is probably the only reason this story is possible._


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